“What on earth is he doing in our house?” I demanded.

The man quickly lowered his eyes, shrinking into himself.

Julian answered with an irritating, unbothered calm.

“His name is Lucas.”

“Is that his name, or did you just decide to name him?”

“He doesn’t remember his real name, Mariana.”

I thought he was making a sick joke.

The elderly man quietly explained in a raspy voice that he had spent twenty years moving between transit stations, parks, and abandoned buildings.

He remembered waking up two decades ago amidst the debris of a construction site, but nothing before that.

No family, no last name, no home address.

Nothing.

Julian had met him while serving soup that afternoon.

“I’m going to help him track down his identity papers and find a decent place to live,” Julian announced firmly.

“Until then, he’s staying in our guest suite.”